


Things Unbearable

by annhellsing



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Domestic Fluff, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fae & Fairies, Fluff and Angst, Gentleness, Geralt getting the love he deserves, Hickeys, Kissing, Missionary Position, Monster Slaying, Monsters, Mutual Masturbation, Nudity, Porn With Plot, Reckless Romantic Gestures, Vaginal Fingering, hand holding, references to familial abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-04-21 08:40:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22056658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annhellsing/pseuds/annhellsing
Summary: People are awful to things that are different. But sometimes they're kind.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Reader
Comments: 154
Kudos: 1501





	1. Touch

**Author's Note:**

> this is a repost from my tumblr bc someone asked for a thing where the reader is just unapologetically kind. and how, i ask, could i not deliver???

You look at the thing that feels and is not like you. 

Geralt considers it a lady’s look, one given to company. But why offer it up to him, as you pluck two loaves of bread from a warm hearth? Just after follows a much smaller one, pressed into a heart-shaped tin so brown with heat and use as to become something other than iron.

“My father sent you,” you tell him with a blasé sweetness that accompanies daughters who are not afraid.

“He said something about a wraith,” Geralt sounds flat. He’s unnerved by the light that curls in the centre of your eye.

You shake your head.You pick up the still-hot tin holding a third loaf. It’s tapped out, carefully with your hands stuffed into oven mitts.

“Idiot, thinking it’s a wraith,” you shake your head again. Though you look down briefly to butter the top of the bread, you turn your eyes back to him soon enough. Your fond eyes, “I have been told she’s a lutin,”

“A house-holding spirit,” he replies. You nod slowly.

“She bites my father’s toes sometimes,” you tell him, “when he’s cross with me. Or steals the gold out of his pockets. But she’s harmless, really. Only ever comes out to help me with my chores.”

He wonder if he read your tone wrong. But he stares back at you, at your unflinching desire to make him understand. No, he didn’t. You aren’t afraid at all of the man cruel enough to attract the ire of a helpful, domestic spirit.

And you’re not afraid of Geralt, either. You speak to him as if all of this is but a miscommunication. That once he knows what’s haunting this house, he won’t hurt her. Another circumstance of its like doesn’t jump to mind, though plenty of the opposite often do.

You set the bread on a saucer, putting it carefully by the hearth. A more manageable place for your lutin to enjoy her supper. You turn and reach into your pocket, now.

“I haven’t very much,” you say, “but you may take whatever my father’s paid you and a little more from me to leave my house in peace.”

You pull a coin purse of faded blue, lovingly embroidered with daisies and hold it out to him. It clinks a bit when you shake it. Geralt heaves a long sigh.

“Keep it,” he says, and you understand what he means. You put the coin purse to your heart and sigh, too.

“Thank you,” you say, “I have no doubt that there are much larger threats that need your attention.”

He hums. Perhaps you anticipate the end of a very odd exchange, or the offer instead simply popped into your head the moment you saw him. Either way, you take him by surprise and ask,

“Stay for supper?” he has barely turned a fraction and again you call his attention. Your soft, upturned mouth gives him the first smile he’s seen in some time.

He says nothing.

“My father won’t return until you’ve told him the wraith is banished,” you say, “he does not know there isn’t a wraith.”

“Shouldn’t he?” Geralt asks. That’s when the fear comes, just a flash of it. He cannot describe how much he wishes never to see it again.

“If you do, he’ll want his money back,” you put forth the excuse as if that alone is the reason.

“There’s no job that needs doing, it’s his,” he continues.

You don’t understand his meaning, then. Geralt isn’t even sure he understands his own. Meddling is his bane, after all, interfering is something he despises. Only, it isn’t. And when you’ve been pushed he imagines you’ll tell him exactly what kind of misunderstanding needs still to occur.

He’s surprised when you bolt around the table. Bold as brass, you walk to him and take up his wrist with a frightful expression. But you’re not afraid of the witcher. You’re afraid, now, of your father.

“He’ll know I talked to you,” you say it low. Village gossips, maybe, or maybe you’re unsettled by your own fear. “And if you tell him there is no threat, he’ll find someone else to get rid of her.”

Geralt is confronted by your rabbit-hearted pace, so much faster than his own. Your warm fingers, rough from work but still fleshy and gentle press against his skin.

“And he’ll be cross with you,” he finishes. He looks down at your hand, gripping him carefully even as the panic shines in your face. Without force, you try to make him understand.

“Yes,” you reply. And those sad eyes fall away from his. “Stay for supper, please. And take his money if only so that he might think for a while that the job is done.”

Two new orders, back to back, though you have a way of making them sound like true questions. As if he could deny someone who doesn’t want him to kill something innocent. You pull on his wrist, experimentally when he neither agrees nor disagrees and lets you guide him to the table. The smile is back, he likes it better than the fear.

“Then, let’s have supper,” you beam at him.

Your larder is not generous, but you are, finding hunks of smoked ham and more butter. You manage a tin of mustard and set out two mugs for ale. He’s hacked off a thick slice of bread and bid to help himself.

He eats, you talk. He’s all right with it, considering he won’t have to pay for his dinner.

“I do hope there weren’t any unkind looks,” you tell him, “people in this town can be so suspicious.”

He hums rather than reply. Counting the days between meals begins to depress him after a while. He hadn’t realized he was hungry until you set a plate in front of him.

“What’s your name?” you ask.

“Geralt,” he grunts, then adds, “of Rivia.”

“Is that a real place?” you cock your head to the side. Like a sweet, little dog. You watch him take a few more bites, like you’re happy he’s eating. It unnerves him.

“Hasn’t been for a while,” he admits. You carve off more bread.

“Once, I thought I wanted adventure to strange places like that,” you begin. He lifts an eyebrow at you.

He half-expected an evening with a young woman living vicariously through his stories. Not this. He shrugs.

“What changed?” Geralt asks.

“I realized I just wanted space to breathe. To be left in a little peace every now and again,” you say. He pauses and then gives a surly nod.

“I know the feeling,” he says.

“Of course you do,” you reply, and with no malice, “you’re different.”

At that moment, there is a shuffling sound from under your bed. Geralt looks and sees the truth crawl out from the dark seam. A little woman, old-looking with white hair pinned under a pointed, red cap. She’s no bigger than a doll, and skips to her meal at the hearth. A lutin, just as you said. You smile fondly at her.

“People can be awful to anything different,” you say. You look to your guest again, “I wouldn’t go far if I did leave. Just somewhere out of Vizima. Do you think she would go with me?”

“Lutin’s help the house,” he says and watches you deflate. Quicker than perhaps he’d like, Geralt adds, “but oftentimes they become attached to the master. In this case, mistress. The one who leaves the offerings.”

“So she might follow?” you ask, “if I ever get the guts to leave?”

“She might,” Geralt replies. The hope in your eyes is not sickening but addictive.

“She is all that I have,” you start, though you falter. You look ashamed with yourself. “I suppose that must sound very grating. I’ve a warm fire and a roof over my head, here, too.”

He shrugs again.

You belong in a house like this, he decides. Perhaps not in the same one as your father if he’s cruel as your fear makes him assume. But in a warm, sturdy home with magic under your bed. And loving arms that extend towards him.

A hand settles over his wrist again, not to stop him from drinking his fill but instead to communicate a point.

“Thank you,” you say, “again. And for all you do. I shouldn’t’ve worried a moment that you might hurt her.”

“Most worry I’ll hurt them,” he tries for a smile. It comes out more twisted. A smirk that’s off on one side. Your shoulders sag with the weight of compassion. Your grip on him turns even more indulgently affectionate.

“You haven’t the faintest idea how kind your eyes are, have you?” you ask. A cloying, little smirk that mirrors his tugs at your mouth. It’s a gentle prod at a spot that used to be sore, by now’s gone a little numb.

Geralt chews his food and extracts his forearm from your fingers. He considers that to be enough, not of a warning but a plea. Say nothing like that again.

Instead, you stand as much as you need to lean across the table. You catch his cheek, your little finger curving around the hard block of his jaw. He doesn’t pull away, but those kind eyes go stony.

“I meant that,” you say.

“That’s what worries me,” he replies. You give a soft sigh.

“It shouldn’t,” you say. But it does. “Nothing should worry you.”

Your hand feels different, pressed so fearlessly to the side of his face. You’re warm, warmer than he and less insistent than he is familiar with. Touch is either violent or visceral. Either kind of contact usually leaves bruises.

But you hold him gently, even as it makes him stiffen. His second helping sits, entirely forgotten. You stare at him like just the act of doing so will make what you say true. Out of the corner of his eye, Geralt watches the lutin carefully clean her apron of breadcrumbs before scurrying back off under the bed.

“Your father will start to wonder how long it takes to banish a wraith,” he says, then smugly adds, “eventually.”

Geralt’s hand covers yours at his cheek. He pries it from his face, though careful not to cause any pain. He doesn’t say it out loud, instead assumes you already know that eventually it will be discovered that he did nothing at all to rid this house of spirits.

Your head bows. He wishes he could put his hand under your chin as easily as you touched him. But he can’t bring himself to do it.

“Thank you,” he says, “for the meal.”

Slowly, you nod. And just when he thinks he’s seen the last of your fond looks, you lift your head. You give him a thankful smile. He moves for the door.

“Geralt,” you say. That’s a way to use his name, he thinks, you make two syllables into a love poem. “Visit me, when I am somewhere else.”

He only nods. And he goes.


	2. A Kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> had a lot??? of fun giving geralt some more love tbh

He wonders sometimes if he really has stopped feeling. Hunched over a bench-table in a dingy tavern, at least fifty pairs of eyes glare daggers at him. Only one set of two means it kindly.

But he doesn’t see you, yet. He sees only glib politeness that hides disgust. Or simple-minded intrigue. Or malice, people hate what scares them. Why your grim acceptance chooses to visit him now, he does not know. But your soft voice is in his ear, people are awful to anything different.

You said something like that, he recalls. Though it was years ago, and he’s never quite had time enough to visit again. He imagines you’re still in that house. He hopes in a pedestrian way that your father’s dead by now.

So when a small hand curls around his shoulder and a familiar warmth settles next to him on the bench, Geralt’s hand does not immediately move to do harm. It does, but it’s slower. He takes the time to turn his head.

And in the flickering half-light of the torches on the walls, you smile at him.

“There you are,” you say, “I thought you’d forgotten all about me.”

“I did,” Geralt replies before he can stop himself, though it’s a hollow lie. He never visited, no, but he did think of you often.

But to his great surprise, you find the lie in the way he talks. You smile at him, beam at him the way you did when he gave in to you the last time. You find a joke in what he tries to conceal.

“Really?” you ask, “I never forgot about you, how could I? It’s not every day a hero comes along to give me hope.”

Geralt shifts, uncomfortable in the face of such overt praise. And hero, he doesn’t hate that word. He just disagrees with it. He lifts an eyebrow and glances at you, but your eyes are cast out to the crowd that’s craning their necks.

You lean in, your shoulder against his. He doesn’t mind the feeling of it.

“Nosy lot, these people,” you tell him, your voice but a whisper. You gesture vaguely, minutely to all of them. “You shouldn’t stay here, you’ll have eyes on you all night.”

“Where do you suggest, then?” Geralt asks. You shrug.

“Come home with me,” you tell him. And you delight in the slight widening of his orange eyes. He’s easier to fluster than you expect. “I owe you immensely for last time.”

“You don’t,” he replies, sounding flat. He hasn’t the stomach to admit that someone wanting other than murder from him was a favour on your part.

Your hand, still on his shoulder gives a gentle squeeze. You put your chin to the backs of your fingers, with no regard for prying eyes.

“I do,” you whisper, “Geralt, this place is awful and I should know. Come on.”

“If you insist,” he gives in again to a new order, one as gently-put as the last two. And the delight on your face is unmistakeable.

He has no idea what possesses you, but you lean in. You kiss his cheek quickly and fondly. You’re already gone by the time he recoils. But you haven’t gone far, just stood up with a hand held out. Begrudgingly, he takes it.

Touch in public is a form of torture. He can’t stand the thought of every man in this room knowing that you could tame a witcher. But he thinks, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he could live with the shame in private.

Geralt notes as the two of you leave that every set of eyes moves with you. He’s more than used to being gawked at, his strangeness stands as proud and tall as the rest of him. But there are people, certain people who stare as plainly at you alone. And he wonders why.

“Friendly bunch,” you say when the door is closed, “but it doesn’t matter. I shan’t need to work there much longer.”

“You don’t live in the tavern?” he asks.

“No, and I haven’t for half a year or so,” you reply, “I— well, I’ll show you.”

You fall into step beside him. No longer guiding, just walking and your hand falls away from his. He is loathe to admit he misses the feeling.

Most of the walk is spent in silence, but Geralt feels less apprehensive about the cold reception at the tavern the closer you take him to the forest. The feeling of eyes on his back lessens when there are trees between him and onlookers.

And you don’t stare, never have as far as he knows. You’ve seen your fill, he considers, and even now perhaps you think his eyes are kind.

The dense forest gives way to a glade, at the centre of which is a squat house with a thatched roof. The odd cobblestone pops up the closer you get, he watches a smile bloom on your face at twenty paces. Home makes people happy, he remembers the feeling.

“Here we are,” you announce, pulling on the door handle. Geralt notes the lack of a key, something that makes his stomach drop involuntarily. But iron locks are expensive.

At least, that’s what he thinks is the reason. But he steps inside and comes to understand it’s something else entirely.

A little, old woman the size of a doll sits on the kitchen table. Her feet dangle over the side and one arm is held out. It puppeteers a broom much too big for a lutin, sweeping dust away as if an invisible force commanded it. Geralt blinks, but says nothing.

Your home is small, only one-room and a little smaller than most would find comfortable. But the same quilt is spread out on your bed, a cloak for colder weather hangs near the door. A fire roars in the hearth, as cheery as the last time he saw you.

And every pot, every nail, every handle on every drawer is made of copper. You smile at him over your shoulder before looking to your friend.

“Thank you, Lu,” you say, moving to whatever bubbles in the copper pot hanging over the fire “how about some supper and a bed with fresh linens?”

A beat passes, he’s still looking at your home. More than a lutin lives here. The dust cloud kicked up by the broom seems guided by a gentle wind with an unseen source. Magic hangs in the air and it isn’t long before he finds the wind sprite working its magic on the mantle. There must be more to find, but then you pipe up,

“Geralt, I was asking you,” you say. You look from him to the sprite above the fire, nervousness looks wrong on your face. He blinks again.

“Oh,” he says, “thank you,” and that’s all. Not a word about the fae in your house.

“I have a few new friends,” you start to explain, “but they’re—”

“Harmless, I know,” he replies, “watch out for the sprites, though. They like their pranks.”

Maybe he was searching for a smile, because he earns it easily. One side of your face glows, cast in orange light. He’s told to have a seat again, he chooses the one at the kitchen table. The lutin looks at him with large, unnerving eyes. He tries not to give any offence.

“I don’t really know what’s in this,” you start, taking a ladleful of the bubbling soup in the pot and pouring it into a bowl for him, “the butcher’s boy brings the meat to me, already skinned and cut up. I just throw it in,” you scoff a bit, “I think he’s taking a liking to me, that boy. Spare me.”

Geralt tunes out most of what you say by habit, but catches himself. Something about a boy. People in town. Spare you their irksome glances. You set a bowl down in front of him, he takes it up.

“They were looking at you almost as much as they stared at me,” he comments, scooping some unknown meat and diced mushroom into the ladle of the spoon he’s been given. Geralt watches your expression, it twists to mirth again.

“I told them my husband was a witcher,” you say, just as he takes a bite. Geralt coughs, pauses to chew and his brow furrows.

“Why would you do that?” he eventually manages. You’re still smiling a little bit.

“So I’d be left alone,” you reply, flatly, “I didn’t specifically have you in mind, I only wanted to be free of meddling and unwanted attention.”

“I can understand that,” he admits, returning to his soup. Your husband, a witcher. That would send the people running quicker than plague. Smart girl.

“Good,” you say, “I thought it was a bit funny, they certainly ran fast in the opposite direction. The butcher’s boy hasn’t quite learned, yet, but now people will think it’s true,” you give a little shrug. “Just like that, you’ve done me another favour.”

“I really haven’t,” he replies, “an outsider wouldn’t think so. I’ve made you a social pariah.”

“Oh, say that again,” you tease, you smile at him and he can’t help it. He smiles back. “Sounds like music to me. I’m tired of being hovered over.”

The expression that flickers over your face, even as you come to sit with him with your own bowl is familiar. Your father did more than hover.

The lutin makes herself scarce with a snap of her fingers, finally having had enough with an excess of company. She disappears into a puff of blue smoke, Geralt imagines you know where. The broom sweeping falls over, like gravity or magic has abandoned it. Silence stays a while.

“What ended up happening?” he asks. His bluntness does not seem to bother you, though you hesitate.

“He died,” you finally say, but your eyes snap up again to Geralt’s, “I didn’t kill him.”

Like you could’ve, he thinks but knows better than to say. There is no such thing as a natural predator, but there certainly is the opposite. And you would be that. Your smile is weak and wan. He shrugs a bit, takes another bite.

“Good riddance,” he finally says. Your nod is short and curt. Though you do hum in agreement.

“So, I left Vizimir, like I said I would,” you continue, “and you visited me, just like you said,” and you lean forward again. You touch him again, just briefly and full of a gentleness that’s becoming familiar. He’s not sure how to feel about that. You put your hand on the back of his, circling your index finger around a bulging knuckle.

Geralt can’t bring himself to remind you he made no promise to find you. Wrong place, wrong time. Or, part of him counters, the time and place were both perfectly right. He looks down at your hand as you take it away.

“No one will believe a witcher is your husband,” he says with an air of finality. You cock your head to the side.

“You came home with me, didn’t you?” you counter, all smiles again.

“If your people,” he pauses to correct himself when your eyes go icy, “those people are anything like most, they’ll doubt I feel at all.”

“You do,” you say with enough confidence to stun him a second, long enough for you to add, “you feel confused every time I put my hands on you. Yes, Geralt, it is that obvious.”

He hums, it’s easier than trying to form a response. And he finishes his soup. You reach across the table to him again, tapping your fingers and tracing the same circle as before.

“You don’t hate to be touched,” you tell him, “you feel confused, but not enough to pull away.”

“What’s your point?” he rumbles. But he does not stand, he doesn’t even move. 

You falter for a second, your little game is lost and your shoulders sag. What he’s said makes you so very sad, and he has no idea why.

“I’m not mocking you,” you say, you reach for him again with more insistence. “I am worried for you. You should be touched often, so often that you feel something other than confusion.”

You hold his hand across the table, like you did so long ago. But now, you trace the lines of his palm, you press the pads of your fingers to his inner wrist. Geralt fights not to shiver. And he finds himself wishing he had words at the ready. So often, cold silence serves him best. But any thought, any hope he has of telling you otherwise disappears with the soft, spiralling motion of your finger on the heel of his palm.

After a long, comfortable silence, you let out a wistful sigh.

“You have to be dead on your feet, Geralt,” you say. And your hand goes again. You rise, your chair squeaking on the wood. “Come, let’s get you to bed.”

A fourth command, one he can’t resist. He feels himself unwinding, unravelling. Your touches, even the kiss in the tavern is only a precursor. A confusing song and dance to prelude a lecherous night that he can leave behind in the morning. It wouldn’t be his first.

He stands, too, towering over you and watching as you clear away the bowls. You’re in your natural habitat, just as he’d secretly hoped to see before. In this strange house, made of copper and wood and filled with faeries, you manage. As hostile as the world outside can be.

Geralt watches the sway of your hips, the way your hair falls out of its loose braid at the back of your head. He wants, all at once, to push his fingers through it. You move to the bed, pulling back the familiar quilt and linen sheets underneath it.

“Wash day was yesterday, you should be quite comfortable,” you tell him, turning with a bright grin that he knows by heart already. “I’ll just wait outside—”

You breeze past him, halfway through your sentence when Geralt’s confusion gets the better of him. He takes up your wrist, grabs it loosely and holds you there.

“Where are you going?” he asks. You look confused, now.

“To wait outside while you undress?” you reply, “when’s the last time you slept in something other than your armour?”

He doesn’t know how to answer that, or if the question is serious. He thought—

And you know exactly what he thought. Geralt can see it in your face, in your warm expression as your smile slips away. This isn’t funny, you understand.

“I’ll sleep by the fire,” you explain, “I often do even when I’m all alone. It’s quite warm and you should rest in a bed for a change.”

“Thank you,” he says again, for lack of anything else. You nod.

“Goodnight, dear,” you say, “I’ll be right outside until you’re ready.”

And you lean in one, last time. You tilt your head up and put your hand at the back of his neck. The angle is strange, so much so that he half expects you to whisper something in his ear. But you don’t.

You kiss him, just once. Very softly you put your lips to his, it’s over before he can register it happened. You nod. And you go.


	3. The Body

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm back!!! on my bullshit!!!! i guess. and i'm def doing more than three chapters, whoops!

You can tell a story the way a bard tells lies. People in town have started to assume you’re a gossip with the way you rattle on. But only ever about yourself, and with a calculated intent. You pepper in worrisome details, shrug off any serious accusations and readily set aside defense when things start picking up steam.

It’ll leave you lonely, some of the other girls did warn you of that. But you disagree. Lonely is the word people use when they don’t wish to be by themselves. Loneliness is cold and sharp and unwanted. But to you, it sounds nothing short of lovely. 

Shrugging off eyes isn’t difficult, either. You did it in the city with some success. People stare no matter where you are, you are in the habit of being so strange as to earn punishment from those who are not. They whisper about your house filled with monsters, the strange noises that often come from it.

They’ve not blamed any disappearing children on you. Yet. Give it time.

Still, it’s a good story. And one that you’ve found the best way to spin so people will believe it. You don’t need to insist any more than the witcher is yours. Everyone say him enter and exit your home in the wee hours of the morning, though some will attest that they haven’t seen him since. But nevertheless, it’s commonly known, now and the precious few suitors who might’ve thought it to be fiction soon learn to avoid you. 

Blissful silence, you could sleep in it like soft grass. 

You can’t wait to fade from their feeble memories. Your terse, brief time as a barmaid has lapsed. Now, you keep chickens, grow vegetables. Money for food is a laughable thought, as is earning your way. You consider taking up wood carving, more pressingly you consider foraging.

The forest holds all you need if you know where to look and do not take too much. There are mushrooms, berries, animals. All a human could ever hope for. And all that things not-so-human could, too.

Because in spite of all your good sense and careful approaches, sometimes you still stay out too late.

The sky goes black a little earlier than you expect, a sign that winter’s making its way to Temeria. You hope for new-fallen snow and a fire in your hearth, but the chill that settles over the forest is nothing short of worrying. You bundle your cloak around you and press on further than you ought.

It’s hard, this long after the harvest to find enough mushrooms to fill the pouch at your hip. You’ve enough in your larder, but it never hurts to go a little deeper between the trees. Until it does.

You pay no attention to the rustling in the trees overhead, humming over the sound to calm any fears. If you left the forest every time you were afraid, you certainly would have no right to live there.

You deny yourself the chance to think that you’ve never strayed so deep out here, before. They call where you live a no-man’s-land, and not necessarily because no men live there. You assume it has more to do with the fact that no human soul could stand to be where others are not. But around you the woods are still a little green, though the cold and the fading light makes things look grey and harsh.

In spite of your better judgement, you press on.

But the crack of a twig makes you halt both in place and mid-song. You turn your head towards the source of the sound. Several paces away is a shape clad all in black, only distinguishable from the rest of the forest by a shock of white hair.

“Geralt?” you call, and you blink. When you open your eyes, the shape of a man is much closer. Getting closer still. 

It is him, you know at twenty paces. You like to think you’d know at forty. But he’s running, his face that looked fine from a distance appears much different as he draws nearer. And with no sign of stopping. 

He is so pale. His eyes are not.

You take a step towards him. There is a sound, either Geralt’s roar or something else that rips through the forest and you let your hood fall down your back, turning to find the source. 

Closer to you than Geralt is a thing, one you’ve never seen in the woods before. It’s tall as a man, its face concealed by a deer skull with branches extending from the head like horns. Its body looks like driftwood sculpted to resemble a corpse, held together by rope and magic. 

You’re too frightened to scream, to stumble backward though that doesn’t end up mattering. You’re grabbed about the waist by two, hard arms and hoisted away from the creature. Even then, you’re silent, only gasping when you’re back on the ground.

“Run, Roach is just behind the trees, ” Geralt doesn’t shout at you, at least. But his insistence makes you find your feet. You shuffle through leaves and twigs before suddenly stopping.

“I’m not about to leave you,” you exclaim, you watch with mystified horror as he dodges a blow dealt by the creature’s long, clawed arm. He draws the broadsword from his back. 

“Go,” he repeats, “when it’s distracted, I’ll follow,” 

You have no choice but to hope there isn’t a lie hidden somewhere in his promise. You do as your told, sprinting towards the trees to find whatever Roach is.

The horse, you expect.

And you haven’t rode anywhere in years, not since you left Vizima. But you slow down in front of the animal, holding out your hand and trying not to spook her.

Whatever Roach’s nerves are made of you imagine they must be strong, because there is a cracking sound and an inhuman scream from deeper in the forest. Where you left Geralt.

“I know we’re unacquainted,” you say because staying silent is beginning to scare you, “but I’m the friend of a friend, I won’t hurt you.”

You stick a foot in the stirrup, arching your leg over Roach’s back. You tug your skirt up past your knees so the hem won’t tear. There’s another shout, but this one sounds human.

“He said to wait,” you mumble to the horse, shifting to take the reigns into your shaking hands, “but I don’t know if he’ll be able to distract it.”

You flick the reins without thinking, nudging Roach’s belly with your heels until she trots forward. She breaks out into a proper gallop, breezing past dead trees and fallen logs the way you came.

You’re calling his name the whole way, shouting for your witcher. 

He’s where he was, still standing at least but the creature isn’t close enough for him to get in a proper hit. You hear crows, large and black circling in the air overhead. Geralt turns at the sound of your voice. He doesn’t need to be told to grab onto your hand when you reach for him. 

His weight settles behind you, heavy and hard against your back. It shoves the breath from your lungs but you lean forward, forcing Roach towards the path that you know will take you home. 

Sharp claws try to catch on the horse’s leg as you ride away. Geralt angles his sword and forces the blade down into the creature’s wooden wrist, turning it with a sickening crack. There’s a scream from the hollow of the skull covering its face as the limb falls away.

Your eyes go wide. Under the bone, there is no mouth. The skull is that thing’s head. 

There’s no time to think on the horror of that, Geralt digs his heels more firmly into Roach’s side and urges her into a hard gallop away from the depths of the forest.

The screeching at your back grows distant, the crows disperse when not in range of their commander. You gasp, over and over again. You clutch the reins in your fists. 

“I couldn’t leave you,” you say when you’re in control of your lungs. Geralt must notice you shaking. His arm pushes itself around your waist, the other reaches around to take the reins. 

He says nothing. You expect he’s cross with you, but you can live with his anger so long as he’s alive to feel it.

“Thank you,” you tell him with a breathless fondness. Gone is the fear, because his arms are around you. Instead, there is only gratitude. It could almost, for a brief second, silence the hateful things he thinks of you.

Because you’re a fool, no mistaking that. You’re a silly girl, too soft around the edges and one day he won’t be able to save you. But, regardless, he has. More than once. 

His face is still a death mask, pale as candle wax. Geralt’s eyes are dark and bottomless, two long tunnels leading far from anywhere familiar. Veins, pronounced and flowing with something other than blood bulge from under his eyes, snaking down his cheeks towards his jaw. He’s sneering at the forest ahead, not looking down for the life of him.

Your addled, terrified mind thinks things you’d never say out loud. Like that his eyes are still kind, even this way. Even when he’s irked, you still can’t imagine he’d wish you any harm.

You contort yourself more fully, turning your head up. Geralt wonders only for a second what you’ll do before he has his answer.

You kiss him. He’s reminded of the one in you living room, the soft exchange of your lips against his. This time there’s a little more body behind it, you force yourself around and out a hand to his cheek. Geralt stiffens but doesn’t push you away, thankfully you give him no need to. You break the kiss after only a few, precious seconds. 

The world around him goes a little too fast. It’s a fight not to crush your ribs under the pressure of his arm. But the kiss is a shock of cold water on his face. It’s a punch to the gut. And he nearly wishes you’d do it again.

Even he’s growing bored with the idea that he’s too ugly to love, but he’s seen grown men devolve into shrieks at the sight of his face while a potion’s still in effect. Geralt’s annoyed with himself for wasting one, for taking your hand when he had a job to do.

You weren’t afraid, even as he ran at you. Even as he shoved you aside. The threat was always behind you, and you never doubted that. Geralt huffs and shakes his head as if to dispel an unwanted thought. 

“You need to stop doing that,” he replies. And though it’s everything in him not to look at you, he finally does.

You’re huddled against his chest, still, your hands settling on his arm for nothing else but comfort’s sake. And though he just told you to stop, you touch your mouth to the sharp line of his jaw not a moment later. 

It’s as if you’ve only just realized that you are not dead. And that reason alone is the cause for all the kisses. Because you’re alive to give them to him. Geralt shifts in the saddle, unbearably uncomfortable with wondering how many times you’d wanted to give him a kiss since that time he spent the night.

He remembers it, sometimes, though he tries not to. It’s easy to be homesick for a warm bed when he no longer has anywhere to safely winter. But sometimes, in the dark with Roach and a fire he thinks about the pleasant weight of your quilt. Even if the extra space beside him wasn’t filled by you.

Geralt certainly recalls your cold nose at his cheekbone, nudging him awake with kisses it seems he will never escape. He’s irked that he doesn’t want to. 

“I never could’ve outrun it,” you whisper. He knows that, “not without you.”

“Hold on,” he tells you, “we haven’t outrun anything yet.”

You don’t hear the scream of the beast, only Roach’s hooves on leeched dirt and twigs. You picture that awful thing following silently at a greater speed than you would expect from something so old. In Geralt’s arms, you shiver. 

You force yourself to turn, just to see if there’s anything there and his grip tightens very drastically all of a sudden. He takes a hard turn to avoid roots that spring from the ground, as if they’ve life of their own. 

Your hand flies to your mouth to quiet a wail, you press your back against his chest and sit upright. The horse rides on and leaves the thing in the woods far behind. 

“What is it?” you ask.

“The leshen,” he replies, “a forest guardian. Old magic, very dangerous.”

“Guardian?” you ask, sounding suddenly frantic. You turn again and notice the dark veins around his eyes are less pronounced. “I shouldn’t’ve trespassed, I worried I might be taking too much.” 

“You didn’t do anything,” he replies, his voice sounds low and heavy, “leshen can’t tell anymore whether a human’s out to do harm or not. They kill whoever comes near.” 

“Oh,” you reply, sounding flat. Fear has exhausted you and yet you still come armed with questions, “why were you in the woods, Geralt?”

“It killed a farmer’s son a few miles north,” he says, “I was made an offer.” 

The farmer’s wife was crying, all she said was stop it, before it hurts anyone else. And her grubby, stout finger pointed to the heart of one of the many forests in Velen. The one you made your home in. Geralt omits that detail. 

Even this far from the creature wreaking havoc in the heart of the woods, it can still be a great threat. It’s almost vindicating, he realizes as he tries to steer Roach with one hand. His reason for coming here was right. Protective, sickeningly protective but he should have done it. And despite the fact that right now he loathes you for being careless, he can’t deny that he regrets his timing.

In spite of all his efforts, he cares about whether you’ll still draw breath even after he’s gone. You made him breakfast, the night he stayed. And he didn’t stay to eat it. You let him go with nothing more than a parting smile. He made no half-promises he would ever see you again, he hoped to himself he wouldn’t need to. But Geralt knew even as he was leaving that what he needed was for you to be alive. He needed to think of you, every so often, and know you were fine.

The little house teetering on the edge of a civilized wasteland needed to be standing. And, every so often, he needed to hear the sound of your voice somewhere in his memories. He needed to be safe in the knowledge that he could hear it again some time.

“It won’t follow us?” you ask, beginning to feel ashamed by all your questions. 

“No,” he says, “when you’re safe, I’ll go back to kill it.” 

“But it’ll be long past dark by then,” you say. He hums.

“I can see in the dark,” he tells you, “witcher’s fight by moonlight.” 

“I didn’t know if that was true,” you reply, “so much about you is awful lies.”

To Geralt’s great surprise, a soft laugh touches the edge of your voice. You squeeze his wrist over his glove, the gesture odd but nevertheless an attempt at comfort. It’s a choice, he supposes, as to whether he’ll accept it as such.

“It will be cold tonight, though,” you try again, you turn to look over your shoulder and a nervous smile is indeed tugging at the corner of your mouth. “You can feel that.”

It’s not a question, either. Like whether he can feel confusion or joy. You know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he’s human in that way, leave him in the snow and he’ll freeze.

“Do I have to ask you to stay?” you tell him, you’re still looking up. Geralt sighs.

You’ve been this close to him before, but only briefly. This prolonged contact is new for you, but you like the sensation. He feels strangely solid, like a wall in so many ways. He’s muscle and spells, still holding you, but not hurting you. 

“You just did,” he says. You go silent for a long minute, turning to look back at the thinning forest. “Do you want my answer?” 

You shrug, he can still hear the smile in your voice, “Now I have it.”


	4. Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm gonna cap this fic off next chapter so have what is most likely gonna be the penultimate part to the series! had a lot of fun with this one, hope you like it!

Silver hail tries to split your window panes, leaving little lines on the glass. Winter’s come early, shrugged into your corner of the woods. Geralt hopes the leshen freezes solid out there, it will make the creature easier to track.

You’ve fed him again, as is your habit and he’s unable to confess how essential the act is. It’s harder to find lodging when the colder months come. Food becomes a priority on everyone’s mind and nobody likes to share with witchers. Geralt’s learned to keep his coin close and to spend it wisely. It’s the only way to find food with snow on the ground should there be nothing to hunt.

None of the usual anxieties surrounding the appetites of witchers is present in your face. Instead, you freely give. More than once you’ve done this for him without an inch of the expected hesitation. You give what you can like it’s more than a duty. A pleasure. He shifts in his seat.

Do unto others, he suspects you would cite as your reason. But Geralt is used to it in layman’s terms, often followed by a threat. Do unto others before they do worse to you. 

It makes sense to him. What doesn’t is why you fail to subscribe to it. He chalks it up to just being in your nature to drift towards kindness. How odd. How special. Geralt makes it known when he’s done, but you only lift the pitcher of blackberry wine and fill his cup to the rim again.

“You’re always ravenous when I see you, it makes a woman worry,” you tell him. And though you smile very gently, the concern in your voice makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He hates pity, of course, but this feels like something else. He doesn’t know what to do with compassion.

“I am,” he says, “I was,” he corrects. “Not any more. Thank you,” he nods to his empty plate and hesitantly takes up the full glass. You smile a little wider.

“You’re more than welcome,” you say, “I can’t imagine there’s much in the way of food roaming the wilds this close to hibernation season.”

Geralt hums, then adds, “Winter is the hardest time. It wasn’t always, now it is.”

“Because of what happened at the stronghold?” you ask, “I’m sorry if that’s just a story.”

“Don’t be,” he replies, “it isn’t just a story. It did happen, but most have no memory of a time when witchers came from anywhere.”

“Still, they did,” you say. He nods.

“Kaer Morhen,” he says, “I haven’t been there in some time.”

“You must miss it so much,” you tell him, “I can’t imagine how difficult it must be.”

He lifts a brow and looks around at the place he always wanted to believe you’d end up. Though things were not all well, and though you’d suffered, you’d made it here. You had a home. He doesn’t imagine he’d be offended if you tried to picture how lonely things can be. You’ve earned it.

“Most people don’t have enough as it is,” he says, changing the subject, “and they don’t want to give what they’ve got to what they barely trust in the first place. I can’t blame them.”

“Enough,” you sigh. “That’s what my father always told me I would never have if I up and left. I would never have enough of anything, food or firewood.”

You rise from the table, piling plates and knives. You leave his cup alone and make your rounds, clearing saucers and teaspoons belonging to the fae in your house. 

“Now, I make do and it turns out enough isn’t so scary a concept,” you finish, turning to him with a smile after you’ve tipped the dishes into the sink. “I have enough to share, especially with you.” 

Silence hangs over the room, interrupted only by the sound of Geralt gulping down his wine. You wash your hands in the basin and dry them on your apron. But when a question occurs to you, you turn.

“Is there hope for Kaer Morhen?” you ask, “A chance to restore it?”

“My mentor, Vesemir, he’s doing what he can to rebuild. But he was only the fencing instructor before the siege. He has no idea how to make more witchers, Geralt says. You nod.

“Witchers should have a home,” you reply. This comes as a surprise to him, doubly so considering you said nothing to debase what he is. It isn’t a new sentiment, Geralt’s heard it before, but usually with the important addition of ‘even’. 

Even witchers, freakish as they may be, should be among their own kind. That’s how it’s phrased. When it is. And it isn’t very often. 

“I think I’ll have a bath,” you say, mostly to yourself. But you open the floor for Geralt to take interest. He looks at you like he’s debating it. “You can, too, if you’d like,”

“Most people insist on it,” he says. And the little smile on his face, to your eyes, glows like noonday sun. You smile back.

“Then you can help me fetch the rainwater from outside,” you say, “and pick whether you’d like to have one while I wash.” 

And you nod your head like all has been decided, holding out your hand for him to take. Geralt hums, but he lets you take his hand in yours. You lead him towards the back door, pausing only to take the little hatchet off the hook hanging nearby.

“The wash tub’s right there,” you look to the copper tub next to the small pile of firewood. Geralt picks it up with one hand, making you smile at him out of the corner of his eye. 

He understands what the hatchet’s for when you lead him to the barrel of rainwater. A film of ice’s settled over the water on top, you prod it gently with the blade until it shifts and comes loose. Then, you motion for him to set the tub on the ground.

Geralt watches your routine with barely-contained fascination. You know what you’re doing, tilting the barrel over enough that water spills into the tub. He stops you only when you go to lift it, putting his hand on your shoulder and taking up the handles. 

“You lift this on your own?” he asks, grunting as he walks back to the house. The snow underfoot doesn’t help.

“I manage,” you reply, “but thank you, all the same. Just set it near the hearth.” 

You stoke the fire that snaps cheerily, coaxing it up from coals so that heat spills into the little room. Geralt takes up his spot at the table again when you nod for him to. The rest of your attention goes to starting tomorrow’s breakfast. 

You toss together rye flour and cornmeal in a bowl, pouring milk to wet it with a precision that suggests you could make cornbread in your sleep. While the bathwater warms, you pour the mix into a heavy-lidded skillet and shove it into thered coals underneath the flames. 

“Should get the screen set up,” you mumble, wiping your hands on your apron.

“Screen?” he asks. You gesture vaguely towards the armoire that sits stoutly near the bed. Geralt supposes you mean to fetch it. Just like you meant to carry the tub inside. Fuck that.

He stands and crosses the room, opening the cabinet doors and moving aside a green kirtle and an embroidered belt that hangs on a hook. At the back is a folded board, a bath-screen tall and likely wide enough to provide some privacy. He takes it out and arranges it for you so that it faces the kitchen.

You thank him with a kiss pressed to both his cheeks. And then he watches you steal your chair from the table, setting on it a towel and a dish filled with honey-brown lye soap.

And he sits in his chair again, avoiding your line of sight. Your head is still visible above the screen as you undress. But he can’t help himself, he catches a flash of bare back, of exposed collarbone. Other than that, your bath passes somewhat silently. 

Until you pipe up, almost lazily from behind the screen after a while, “Geralt, would you fetch my nightgown? The clean one, it’s in the cabinet where the screen was.”

You hear feet shuffling instead of a reply, and you lean back in the tub with a small smile on your face.

He doesn’t remember this one from the last time he stayed. Geralt thinks he’d recall the little sprigs of lavender stitched around the collar of your linen shift. He steps around the screen to put it on the chair that holds the soapdish. His eyes aren’t closed, you notice, but you didn’t ask him to do any such thing. 

Geralt catches a flash of the back of your neck. Of your wet hair and smiling mouth that makes another thank-you before he goes. It’s hard for him to go, he realizes when he’s sitting again. It was hard for him to walk away, even as he did it. 

A moment later, he hears you rising from the water. Your head appears above the screen again, a torrential downpour to rival the snow outside falling from your hair. You dry yourself and, turning, catch his eye. You smile at him and pull your nightgown on.

“Have we made a decision?” you ask, stepping from behind the screen. You’re still smiling, tying the cord at the neck of your shift and hiding your bare sternum. 

You look beautiful, Geralt can admit, even when wet. Even when he can’t see naked back or shoulders. The lace around your collar looks thin as cobwebs, everything about you is delicate enough to make him shiver. But not out of any worry. He realizes you wait on him for an answer with a patient expression.

“I’ll have a bath,” he tells you. And your smile widens. 

“Lovely,” you say, “I’ll clean the tub and fetch new water--”

You’ve hardly taken a step towards the door before Geralt’s on his feet, moving around the screen and hauling up the tub a second time. 

“Oh, don’t,” you tell him. He looks at you, his eyes glow like copper.

“Stay by the hearth or you’ll catch your death,” he rumbles, “I can manage.”

And all that’s left for you to do is tug open the door for him so he can trudge back outside. You close it behind him.

You do as you’re told, sitting by the hearth and feeling awkward. Wondering if you’d perhaps offended Geralt with coddling. But it would be very rude of you to ask your guest to ready his own bath. Maybe you should’ve gone after him.

The door is kicked open with a boot, you don’t have to tug on the handle. And Geralt comes back inside with more rainwater in the tub, which he sets again on the floor. Outside is bitingly, painfully cold compared to when you were dry, but you shove the door closed against the sharp wind.

“Thank you,” you tell him, though he’s lost track of how many times it’s been said today. But he only nods, curtly. You move back behind the screen, away from the warm fire. 

You say his name while he’s taking off his armour, tugging leather straps from his shoulders and letting them fall heavily onto the ground. He hums to say he heard you.

“In the woods, your eyes were all black and veined,” you start. 

“I drank a potion,” he replies, “couldn’t even tell you which one, I grabbed it from my bag and took it so quickly.”

Because he saw you, he thinks, and a leshen standing just behind you. There was no time to waste carefully selecting the bottles he had. 

“They make me stronger,” he says, “faster. And uglier, I guess.” 

“I’ve never once thought you ugly,” you reply, and the little laugh in your voice makes his stomach drop as he steps into the tub. “I only worried you might be sick. But I didn’t think you’d hurt me.”

“Good,” he grunts, “I wouldn’t.”

You shift in the chair by the kitchen table, the one he was in for all of supper and your bath. But there’s a chill this far from the hearth, goosebumps pill your skin.

“I know the screen is facing towards the kitchen,” you say, “but would you mind terribly if I sat on the bed? I’m a bit cold.” 

“Do as you’d like,” he says, “it doesn’t make a difference to me.” 

You stand and dart across the room, just to be polite. And you don’t even glance at him, as much as you’d like to. You sit on the bed, making yourself comfortable atop the two quilts and pillows.

But, draped along the foodboard is Geralt’s heavy cloak. You look at that more readily than you do him, and without asking you tug it over yourself. You lie on your back, eyes watching the wood grain in the ceiling. 

“Has the butcher’s boy been leaving you alone?” Geralt asks. He hears you scoff behind him, and turns to look.

You’re staring at the roof, not at him and his cloak is bundled tightly around you. He decides he doesn’t hate the sight at all. But then, your eyes fall to his out of habit and the only answer you give him is a squeak. 

Your grin spills onto your face and you look away very quickly, mumbling, “Sorry, dear, I didn’t mean to.”

“I looked at you,” he replies, and it only makes you giggle. 

“Naughty, Geralt,” you sigh, “very naughty,” and you let yourself laugh until all the laughter’s left you. Then, you say, “I’m left perfectly alone ever since the night you stayed over.”

“Congratulations,” he shrugs, “I think.”

“Yes,” you say, “I realized that I’m not so much blessed in my loneliness as I am selective with my company.”

“That’s one way to look at it,” Geralt hums, but even you can tell the difference between his thinly-veiled disgust and admiration. Your eyes fall to his back again out of habit.

He’s looking at the dancing flames in the fire, you look at his well-muscled back. It’s riddled with deep, long scars, the likes of which you’ve never seen. And though you want to gasp in shock, perhaps in compassionate awe, how could you do that to him? You stay silent. 

“You’re like that, too,” you say instead, “selective with your company, but kinder than you know to those who deserve it.”

He doesn’t say a word, he only exhales sharply. Like a laugh without the commitment. 

“It’s less of a choice with me,” he says.

“Because people are dreadful,” you remind yourself, “that’s right. And they tell awful lies.”

“Only because they’re scared,” Geralt says. And when he turns again, he doesn’t send you into a fit of giggles. His eyes are hard and orange, you look into them without fear. “You saw me in the woods today, can you blame them?”

“Yes,” you reply as you prop yourself up on your elbow. He doesn’t know if he’s ever heard your voice go so hard and cold. 

Geralt considers for the first time since knowing you that you might not be very kind at all. That he might just have proved himself worthy of the sweetness you can possess. Though the bath is warm enough, a shiver runs up his spine. 

“I will blame them for their cruelty,” you tell him, “to you and to everything else that’s odd. Because it’s their fault and no one else’s.”

You go quiet after that, Geralt still looks even when your eyes are called away by the sound of harsh snow making the glass panes in your windows rattle. The rising, coiling anger in you is dissipated by soft fear. 

That is what you fear, a cold storm come to kill you. To tear your house down with you and him inside. Not the white-haired monster in your washtub a few feet away from you. When you settle, you say more.

“The people that sacked Kaer Morhen are all long dead,” you say without malice or anger. It’s just a fact. “And so are most of the people you remember who were so bitterly cruel to you.” Perhaps not all of them, and they’ll always have children, but Geralt’s heart stutters when you add, “But you’re still here. You’re still alive and those who hate you will never live to see you fall.” 

He blinks and shifts in the water. He’s already rising when you continue,

“The people who accuse you of feeling nothing, who are so congratulatory when they say you’ll never know human emotion,” you pause as if trying to collect the right words. “They only wish they knew love as deeply as you do. And that’s why they say otherwise, because they know they don’t---”

You turn when you see movement out of the corner of your eye. Geralt stands with his back to the fire, his front to you. He steps out of the tub, dripping onto your wooden floor. He takes a step, then another one but no fear twists its way onto your face. 

He walks to the bed and you sit up all the way. You’re confused, not afraid when he takes your face in his big hands and leans in. Geralt kisses you with a weight behind him that you’ve never felt before and lips that are warmer than the fire.


	5. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> she's finally finished!!! thank you so, so much to all of you who've waited so patiently and left such nice comments. this was such a fun time and i never thought my fun little indulgent one-shot would get four more chapters!!! stay safe and i hope you enjoy!!

He makes his mind blank, he has to as he folds his body around yours. The kiss is hot, partly from the flames that licked his front while he bathed. But his back is cold, you wrap your arms around him and press your palms flat against muscle. 

And scars. You’ve seen the scars and said nothing. He’s lost count of how many times you’ve yet to rush blindly forward into pity. He’s been kissed before, prodded at under the pretense of love. But you love him. You do. It’s why you arrange yourself so carefully. 

You do not touch, scratch at or trace the long, deep claw-scars on his back. You similarly avoid the numb evidence of fire that licked his side. Monsters, people, some combination of both have rendered his good skin a fragile map. You’ve been entrusted with a special permission, you don’t want to betray that.

This isn’t the first time he’s allowed someone close to him. Perhaps, he considers with no small amount of disgust, it won’t even be the last. He hugs your waist with careful hands, trying to mimic the way you touch him even as he knows it’s pointless. He’s been lucky, and left you unharmed a handful of times. But that won’t last forever. Geralt barely notices how much he’s thinking, the kiss he gives turning sloppy and distracted. 

That is, until you move to make him stop. Your hands skitter back to his shoulders, pushing enough to make him break the kiss.

“Geralt, wait,” you stumble through the sound of his name, he likes it so much. “Geralt, are you sure?”

He pulls back, his hair is wet against his shoulders and slicked back from his face. You can see his eyes, hard with confusion and nothing else threatening. He grips you tighter for a second, like he’s scared to let go, and then he releases you.

“I don’t--” he starts, “are you afraid?”

“What?” you ask, your hands move to his biceps. You keep him from moving any further away. “I’m not, not a bit, but you look so focused. It’s enough to worry me.”

Your hand cups his cheek, making his eyes fall closed almost involuntarily. Geralt sighs and lets you have a moment of indulgent affection. You kiss him, just once and quickly, as if to soothe any fears.

“I’m not afraid in the least. But I think you might be,” you say.

“No,” he replies, “it’s not that simple.”

“Not when you’re hiding it from me,” you tell him, “what’s wrong? Problems shared are problems halved.”

That’s new, he thinks. He’s embarrassed by the slight lean of his cheek against your hand, the way he chases all acts of love like they’re a rarity. It hurts because they are. But you look at him with no excess of anything but love. Your eyes are warm, you’re not smiling anymore but it isn’t because you’re unhappy. 

“You stopped me the last time,” he says, “I want you to stop me again.”

“Why?” you ask, “I might be ready now.”

“How are you so certain?” he asks. You shrug.

“Because I know you better. And you seem more comfortable with how I treat you,” it didn’t occur to him that he wasn’t before.

Because while he can admit that he liked it, Geralt supposes it didn’t sit right with him. Kindness is often a cruel joke, and one had better enjoy it while it lasts before it’s gone. But you touch him so carefully, you’re as patient as a saint. And what you do seems to be more permanent than he’s used to. It still doesn’t make sense. 

“But why now?” he asks. 

“I think you know me better, too,” you reply, “I think you know me to be an honourable woman.”

He doesn’t say anything. Anything he could come up with would only sound foolish. 

“I didn’t want to before because I didn’t want you to think you were just a body, do you understand?” you ask. And Geralt shakes his head before he can stop himself.

He’s naked between your legs, his back warming now that it’s turned to the fire. But immortal though he may functionally be, Geralt isn’t immune to cold. His front is still a bit wet, as is his hair and the snowstorm outside blows freezing wind through the cracks in your walls. You hug him.

“This is foolishness,” you tease, “and you say I’ll catch my death! What about you? Come on, Geralt, it’s warmer under the quilt.”

You turn, he leaves your arms. You pry back the covers with barely-dry hands to reveal the mattress and cold sheets beneath. Without an inch of hesitation, you slip between them and urge him to do the same.

Your interest in talking returns only when his wet hair is against one of your pillows. The bed feels better with another body in it, warmer. Fuller. Right. Geralt turns on his side out of instinct, you make yourself comfortable very close to him. Your shift feels cool and soft against his stomach.

“Why do you want me to turn you away?” you ask, lifting a hand to brush a long strand of white hair out of his eyes. “If you’re not ready, there isn’t any shame in that.”

He hums in the negative, shaking his head like it’s a funny thought you’ve had. You smile a bit, trying to coax his beautiful eyes to yours again. 

“I’ve been ready for you a while,” he admits. 

“Do you mean that?” you reply, “Because I haven’t been. I wasn’t lying when I said I didn’t want you to feel like a body.”

“I know,” he replies, “I’m not sure I understand it, but--”

“Take comfort in the fact that I do, at least,” your smile returns again. It is so unfairly beautiful, so easy to enjoy when it arrives. Geralt does not know how he ever could’ve thought you smiled too much. Not when it’s become so necessary. “And that you’re kind for indulging me.”

He decides against arguing that fact. He wants kisses, touches, your smile pressed against his cold lips. You warm him slowly, taking your time and feeling the hard edges of his body soften under careful hands. 

Geralt tugs you and in one, swift motion you’re lying on his chest. You giggle against his lips, pulling away for only the briefest second to gasp. Your clean hair falls in his eyes, smelling like soap and rainwater. He brushes it behind your eyes and the rough pads of his fingers bring a flush to your cheeks. 

“Oh, those eyes,” you smile at him, leaning forward and pressing your forehead against his. “I miss them when they go. Sometimes I see them in the dark right before I fall asleep.”

“That sounds ominous,” Geralt mumbles, tempted to look away. Instead, he gives in to the urge and the corner of his mouth is tugged up into a smirk. He has a hand around your waist, his fist bunching in the fabric of your shift at your lower back. 

“I suppose it does, but I meant it to be romantic,” you give him another kiss, barely more than a peck. “We are both a little out of practice, at least.” 

He hums, rubbing his hand over your back in a way that makes you sigh. He seems content to touch and feel only, even if the initial kiss was charged with something else. It’s like he’s almost hesitant, worried to make the first move a second time.

You’re not.

You sit up with the grace of a spring wind, tossing your hair back and giving an impish smile. Your knees fit on either side of his hips well enough, the quilt falling down to your hips. But when your hands move to the cord at the neck of your shift, you pause.

“Are you warm enough, love? Do you want to move on? Or would you like a little more--” you lean forward, just for a second to peck his cheek. It accentuates the point and makes Geralt hum again. He doesn’t know, it’s all wonderful. 

“Will you--” he starts as you straighten your back again. The roll of your eye is the gentlest he’s ever seen.

“You’ll be kissed regardless, don’t worry,” you assure him. He grunts and takes the fabric of your shift in his fist again, giving a slight tug upward. You grin. “A fine choice.”

And it is. While the both of you are in need of practice with affection, you move with some confidence about what to do next. Geralt is unsure if that speaks of prior experience or just the force of your desire. Your desire for him, of all people. He groans at nothing, but you give him a reason. 

You untie the bow between your collarbones, letting your slip fall down your shoulders. Your breasts look softer and warmer than he’d dreamt about, and he had absolutely dreamed of them. Before he can stop himself, Geralt braces his palm over your chest.

At least you giggle, you don’t suddenly find his touch truly repulsive. In fact, you lean in and make him wonder all over again what he did to deserve this. You let him feel to his heart’s content, Geralt kneads your right breast with a fixation on gentleness.

He freezes when you take his other hand off your back and place it next to the one on your chest. He hums and follows the downward curve of your stomach, over your hip. Geralt gives a squeeze there, prompting you to rock forward. He hisses and you smirk down at him.

“Good?” you ask, he nods.

“Do you like it?” he asks in turn, just before dragging his thumb very deliberately over your nipple. His fingers trace circles on your hip and he sighs when you give yet another, forward thrust.

“Oh, yes,” you sigh, “yes, more of that.”

He takes it as gospel, lavishing attention on your chest while you mindlessly rock against his hips. Geralt is hard and straining against your thigh, spurned by every soft sound and loving confession you freely part with.

His hand doesn’t move from your hip for a while, but it eventually journeys to your upper thigh. Your shift is bunched there, hiding his erection and the warm heat that rests just above it. Geralt pauses, slowing his attentions until you look at him. He wordlessly asks for permission, you grant it with a quick nod. 

It’s not as if he’s new here. New to this. But his hand is near-shaking as he pulls the fabric up. He cups you with his palm before carefully exploring between your folds with his index finger. You give a jolt, not perhaps because the sensation is intense but because he’s kept you waiting. The anticipation makes you sharply inhale. You close your eyes, beaming and tilting your head back. 

You’re wet. He strokes his way up and down your slit, familiarizing himself with the territory before settling into tried and true motions. The tip of his finger traces circles on your clit, now, making you sigh a little louder. 

The way you breathe is like heaven, high and soft. You lean forward, bracing a hand against his chest for balance. But even he, with his eyes only open so he can watch you squirm, can see you’re faltering.

“Lie down,” he says, but it’s hardly a command. Just a suggestion. If you told him to quiet down, straddled him and rode him until your hips struck his like flint chips Geralt would thank you for the attention.

But you’re too sweet for that, too inclined to making him happy. You nod and move off of him, lying with your head to the pillows. He hopes that very soon, you’ll know that all he wants to do is make you happy.

You stretch out, turning to him and giving a smile so genuine that he’s struck silent. He watches you move out of your shift, pushing it down your thighs and tossing it to the end of the bed. It lies with his cloak. 

“Come here,” you tell him and there is no need for any repetition. Geralt pushes himself up, moving over you. With no resistance on your part, your legs open and he kneels between them. 

Almost immediately he gets back to exploring, squeezing your thighs and urging them a little further apart. Your hands are busy, too, fingers brushing over his chest and moving ever lower. While he teases your clit, you make a fist around his cock and delight in his startled gasp.

His face contorted in pleasure is most definitely something you could grow used to. Geralt huffs and hums, squeezing his eyes shut before remembering that he needs to open them to admire the sight of you. He only wishes the slow, measured beat of his heart might quicken to show you how good it feels.

You’re warm and wet under his hand, he prods and strokes until you’re mewling and squirming. He fits a finger inside you, taking his time trying to find the spots that make your noises come quick and fast. It isn’t difficult at all, you let him touch and caress where he pleases. And you seem more than willing to be pleased.

He doesn’t catch all of what you say, when you speak. It’s mostly hushed, gentle admissions of affection. Fond things that could make him blush. You throw an arm around his neck, pulling him close enough to kiss. And though he does lose sight of you, he hasn’t the heart to complain. 

“More,” you gasp, loud enough for him to hear. Against your mouth, you feel him smirk before Geralt pushes another finger inside you. He takes his time, you wrap your legs around his waist in anticipation. 

He’s too far away, you think as you fumble and try to get him closer. Your movements are a little more erratic, with his thumb still rubbing places most sensitive, even as he curls his index and middle finger. You sigh and gasp and struggle to form coherent thoughts. It’s pointless, you doubt he cares whether what you have to say is intelligible. He wants to hear it regardless. 

You come with a whine of his name, turning your head to the side and closing your eyes. Your hips buck hard, nearly throwing him off balance. He takes his fingers from you and braces himself on the bed, but continues to stroke your clit until your orgasm runs its blissful course. 

“My goodness,” you sigh, letting your eyes flutter open. You have no time to look at him, Geralt dips his head and presses his now-warm mouth against your exposed jugular. He feels the heat of your blood and the steady thump of your unaltered heart. The kisses he leaves make you gasp afresh. 

Your hand goes to the back of his head, pushing damp locks of white hair between your fingers. His cheek is kissed, the one you can reach while he lavishes his affection the only way he can.

“That was nice,” you sigh, struggling to maintain the right hold on his still-prominent erection with the afterglow settling in. “You can leave a mark, if you like, love.”

Geralt pulls back enough to look at you, only slightly distracted by the feeling of your hand in his hair. He fixes you with a quizzical, orange stare and hums as if to ask if you’re sure. You nod.

“I love you,” you say, “make me yours.”

And he needs no more prompting. His teeth fit close to your neck, your fluttering pulse beating against his mouth. He has no doubt that you mean it, that you want it and he pours as much as he can into the act. Perhaps it will make up for the fact that he can’t return the sentiment how he wants to. He is in love, there is no doubt, or something close to it. But saying as much feels so oddly outside his capability. 

You don’t complain at all, however, even as the only sounds that fill the room are your noises of encouragement. When he’s done, a small, red mark from his teeth decorates just above where the collar of your dress would fall. He takes a kind of pride in it, one that makes his cock twitch in your faltering grip. 

He takes a moment to admire you, still breathing shallowly and warm from toe to tip. Your legs still loosely hold his waist, the swell of your breasts looks soft and inviting. He feels an urge to say what’s been unspoken, to confess that he loves. And that most of all, before anything else, he loves you.

“You’re beautiful,” you say when he remains quiet. Geralt’s eyes are already soft, roving over your naked body. But he looks at you, lifting a brow.

“You are,” he replies, “you’re so beautiful.”

You smile at him, tugging him closer with the arm still holding the back of his neck. And he’s kissed again, slower and deeper than before. You’re almost lazy, giving him what he needs before shifting and palming at his erection with more confidence.

“Let’s take care of this, hm?” you ask and he grunts, then nods with more enthusiasm than you’re used to from him. Perhaps it’s foolish, but he wants you more than he can articulate. He’ll endure embarrassment, especially when you look at him like it isn’t embarrassing at all.

You adjust yourself, taking his length in your hand and nudging it against your entrance. Geralt lets you decide the pace, watches with a groan as you tease him before helping him ease inside. His hips give a slight stutter, he braces himself on the mattress, held up by one arm. His other hand cups your cheek, tilts your head forward so he can kiss your forehead before once again disappearing between your legs. 

He’s rewarded with a pleased sound as he inches his way in you. His middle finger lazily curls around your clit in a motion that would be rhythmic if he didn’t need to pause to process. You feel so good, so tight and warm around him, it’s almost too much. Geralt huffs and blows a strand of hair out of his eyes, he begins to rock his hips.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he says. You nod, but then smile like you’ve thought of something funny to say.

“Or not enough,” you reply, leaning up and kissing his jaw. He hums in agreement. 

“Right,” he nods, “however you like it. That’s what you’ll get.”

“Really, now?” you’re glowing, listening to him like it’s music to your ears. Your legs tighten around him. “I’m the one in charge?”

“Always,” he replies. You believe him.

“Well,” you sigh, “I want to enjoy this. We’ve waited long enough.”

You certainly have.


End file.
